


Lost and Found

by analineblue



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-27
Updated: 2010-08-27
Packaged: 2017-11-03 14:42:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/analineblue/pseuds/analineblue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto isn't always sure how to describe what it's like, being with Jack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lost and Found

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place sometime around the middle of season two, but the exact time frame isn't important. It's basically my take on Ianto dealing with the mystery that is Captain Jack Harkness.

Ianto isn’t stupid. 

He does stupid things here and there like anyone else, sure. 

There was the thing with Lisa. He’d walked away from that though, from her. He’d given up. Realized that he’d lost, and just… given up. Walked away like any sane person would. Moved on. Let go.

And then of course, there’s Jack. 

He’d probably be able to walk away from that too, but there’s this little voice in his head that keeps telling him that as long as he stays here at Jack’s side nothing will ever go bad again. This may be his last best chance to get it right, and he doesn’t want to blow it.

Ianto allows himself to believe this--to believe in Jack, in Torchwood--because he wants to. 

Maybe because he likes the idea of Jack saving him, or maybe because somehow it makes sense to him, but either way, this thing with Jack, whatever it is, it makes him want to _feel_ things again, makes him feel alive, reminds him that he’s human. 

This time he won’t let go. 

It doesn’t need a name, doesn’t need anything at all, because it just _is_. It’s simply something that exists in this particular point in space and time. Like how Jack ended up here, in Cardiff in the 21st century. Like how Ianto had somehow ended up here too.

If there was a mirror in front of him, he’d be staring into it, memorizing the look in his eyes, scouring his face for any regret hidden there, any doubt, any sign that this is wrong, that he’s made the wrong choice. 

There isn’t though—there isn’t anything, there never is, no matter how much he thinks about it, so he just lies still, his eyes shut tight, listening to Jack’s breathing as it ebbs and flows around him, feeling the other man’s warmth, his weight on the mattress next to him. 

_There’s no future with me_ , Jack had said to him once, and at the time it hadn’t made sense, because of course, for Jack, the future is limitless. And even if Ianto thought he might understand now, it really didn’t make any difference. 

There’s never been any question of where he wants to be. 

When he thinks about it like this it seems simple, uncomplicated. Less like another stupid thing that he’s gotten himself into, and more like something normal, like something _good_. 

He lets out a breath, and rolls over. 

He never gets any sleep when he spends the night in Jack’s quarters—-he’s not sure why he even tries anymore.

“You awake?” 

Jack’s voice is quiet, echoing dully in the darkness next to him. 

“Yeah,” Ianto says, rolling over onto his back and glancing at Jack, his eyes adjusting, making out Jack’s features, just barely. 

“What were you thinking about?” Jack asks, and Ianto smiles. 

“What do you think?”

“Oh, I don’t know, could be anything, I guess, right?” Jack says playfully.

“Could be,” Ianto says, rolling over onto his stomach, and propping himself up on his elbows. “It’s not though.”

“Oh?”

Ianto just smiles, studying Jack’s face--his eyes, his lips, memorizing them like he has a million times before. 

“What about you?”

He doesn’t really expect an answer to this, so he’s surprised when Jack laughs a little, and moves closer.

“Oh, you know, a little of this, a little of that.”

Ianto’s stomach does an embarrassing flip as Jack touches his fingers to the side of his face. 

“Thanks,” Ianto says, and Jack laughs, one of those deep belly laughs and Ianto wonders what it would be like to stay here forever, until he grows old with Jack, withering away, just like this, with Jack’s palm against his chin, feeling his warmth, knowing that any second now, Jack was going to lean in for a kiss, and that his kiss would melt away everything else Ianto was feeling. He’s sure it would be as perfect a life as he could ever hope for… 

But Ianto’s not stupid—if he knows anything, and he does, he knows a lot of things--he knows he can’t hold onto Jack.

**

People are always asking him to describe what it’s like, being with Jack. 

And some aspects of their relationship are easy to describe, but other things, not so much. When you get away from the sex and the excitement and the fun, things get a little harder to put into words, a little harder for Ianto to wrap his head around, but he tries to anyway, because he wants to understand, needs to. 

Ianto has never thought of himself as being particularly prone to addictive behavior, but with Jack… Sometimes he thinks being with Jack is a little like being an alcoholic, or a drug addict, or one of those people who were addicted to sex, or food, or, well, anything. 

Because however much he has, he always seems to want more--just a little more, each time. More time, more attention, just _more_. 

And Ianto depends on Jack so wholeheartedly sometimes that it really feels like a drug, the thing he needs to get through the day, all of that. Okay in small doses, as with anything, but what about the prolonged effects? He goes back and forth between hating the fact that suddenly Jack--being around Jack, being close to Jack-- is everything to him, and _loving_ it, needing to feel this more than food or air or sleep. 

Ianto loves the chaos of it, but he loves the order too; he loves how Jack can be everything, and then nothing in an instant. Jack can be so _present_ , and then in the next instant, he can slip through Ianto’s fingers like sand, and of course Ianto can be anything, everything, or nothing for Jack, all in the same moment too. He can transform himself to fit wherever Jack needs him—and if Jack doesn’t need him? 

Well, he’s always been good at invisible too.

**

Ianto pauses, blinking in the dim light of the hub at night. 

The emergency lights are the only thing on--everyone else is gone. He’s not supposed to be here either. He’s supposed to be at home in his flat, sleeping like a normal person with a 9-5 job. Not that Torchwood has ever been exactly 9-5. 

He scratches out the last of the lines he’s written in his diary with several swift swipes with his pen—black, felt tip, his favorite—and sighs. 

In the end he really has no idea what being with Jack is like. 

“Writing poetry about me again?” 

Ianto starts at Jack’s voice and glances up, steadying his breath as he meets the other man’s eyes. He should’ve known it wouldn’t be long before Jack noticed he was here. 

He flashes Jack a comfortable smile. “You know me, sir.” 

Jack takes a seat next to him on the couch, and presses his hand to Ianto’s shoulder. Ianto breathes, closes his eyes. When he opens them again, Jack is still watching him attentively. 

“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, and squeezes Ianto’s shoulder, then let’s his hand fall back to the couch. The heat from the touch lingers on Ianto’s skin, an afterimage. “Why didn’t you ping me?”

“Because it’s the middle of the night,” Ianto states calmly. “Though…” He smiles. “I’m not surprised you weren’t asleep either.”

Jack just smiles back at him. Ianto can’t tell what he’s thinking to save his life. 

“We should do this more often,” Jack says after a moment.

Ianto blinks. “What?” 

Jack is watching him with something like amusement, but there’s no mistaking the invitation in his eyes, and Ianto is never one to miss an opening if he can help it. 

He leans in towards Jack, his lips so close that he can feel the other man’s breath against his cheek. He places his hand against Jack’s neck. Jack’s skin is smooth around his collar, and warm. Ianto closes his eyes, breathing him in just a little, and when Jack’s hand brushes against his back encouragingly he presses their lips together. 

It’s electric, the energy pulsing between them, and Ianto parts Jack’s lips easily with his tongue. The inside of Jack’s mouth is as inviting as always, dark and intoxicating, but a little sweet too, comfortable. Ianto lingers here, sucking on Jack’s tongue lightly, feeling Jack’s fingers on his back flex and press, pulling him closer. He thinks he could get lost in here, in Jack... 

_Yes_ , he thinks a moment later, as he swirls his tongue around the roof of Jack’s mouth, yes, he’s pretty sure he’s already completely lost his way here--no way out, no exit.

Maybe _that’s_ what being with Jack is like. 

Like being lost, like wandering around in the dark, some exotic place, a jungle, maybe, no maps, no natural sense of direction, just feeling your way around endlessly. 

_Yes_ , he thinks again, as Jack moans in approval of the direction, the trajectory of his tongue. It’s definitely a little like being lost. About as terrifying too. 

After a moment, Ianto pauses to catch his breath, feeling flushed, and Jack, completely in-control Jack… Jack is just grinning at him. 

“You know,” Jack says, “I was going to say ‘talking’—-not nearly enough opportunities for middle-of-the-night confessions in this line of work--but your idea’s not too shabby either.”

Ianto blinks, processes this, following Jack’s logic carefully. “You thought I was going to confess something,” he says, still a little breathless.

Jack grins. “Maybe. You tell me. Have something to confess?”

“Not a thing, sir. I’m an open book. You know everything there is to know.”

“Do I?”

“Yep.”

“Well then, I guess we better get back to it.” 

“We really better,” Ianto agrees, his breath catching as Jack stands and stretches out a hand. Ianto grips Jack’s fingers, and suddenly wonders if _lost_ is the right way to think about it after all. 

This, after all, is where he ended up after what felt like the end of the world. He fits here, has his place. Belongs. 

And then Jack looks back at him, suddenly impatient, and Ianto decides that it really doesn’t matter, at least not tonight. 

**

Ianto wakes up in Jack’s bed hours later--he’s sure it must be morning, or almost morning, but without any natural light down here, it’s hard to tell, and his watch is out of reach. He blinks a few times and as his eyes adjust, he notices Jack, sitting opposite the bed, staring into the semi-darkness. 

This look on Jack’s face-- he’s miles and miles away, and Ianto knows he can never reach him; he doesn’t even try anymore. This look always disappears in an instant if Jack knows he’s watching anyway. It doesn’t fade away slowly, or linger, because it’s not something Ianto is supposed to see. And Jack doesn’t show Ianto anything he’s not supposed to see. 

Ianto pulls the covers up to his chin quietly and watches, feeling a little voyeuristic, but mostly just needing to see this, to remind himself. It doesn’t matter what happens between them, how intimate or how special it feels. In the end this is who Jack is. 

Lots of times Ianto thinks he understands, that he really, _really_ understands, and that it’s okay, but other times seeing this side of Jack fills him with an ache so deep in his chest he’s not sure if he can stand another second of it. 

He blinks when Jack turns to him, tries to arrange his features into something less conflicted than how he’s feeling, but he’s not sure how successful he is. If Jack’s look of concern is any indication, he’s failed completely. 

“Ianto?”

Ianto quickly pulls himself together. “Sorry,” he says, forcing a smile. “Bad dream.”

Jack studies him. “Want to talk about it?”

“No,” Ianto says softly. “Come here.” There’s just a hint of a question in his tone.

Jack smiles, moves to get up.

“I missed you,” Ianto says, as Jack lies next to him on the bed. He’s not sure why he said that, why suddenly several of his carefully constructed filters seem to be failing him. Must be the curve of Jack’s hand on his hip. The way his fingers are brushing against Ianto’s neck, drawing him out.

Jack, predictably, laughs. 

“I wish you’d talk to me,” Ianto continues. “It’d be nice to know what you’re thinking sometimes.”

Jack deflects him, as always. “And I wish you’d tell me what you’re writing about in that diary of yours all the time.”

Ianto flushes, and Jack laughs, pulling up next to him, his arm around Ianto’s chest, fading the tension away into something warm, and familiar. Jack always makes this so easy—

“Come on, tell me,” Jack whispers. “What do you write about?” Jack nips at his ear.

“Myself, mostly,” Ianto answers honestly. “And lately, you.”

“No.” Jack stares at him in mock disbelief.

“Yes,” Ianto says, pushing Jack off playfully as he sits up.

“Well come on then, what _about_ me?”

“Just, you know, normal everyday stuff.”

Jack is beaming now, eating it up. Ianto sighs.

“If you really must know—“

“Yes. I really must. Tell me.” Jack is nodding earnestly at him.

Ianto rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling a little anyway. “Last night I was writing about what a mystery you are.”

Jack raises his eyebrows approvingly. “I really am, aren’t I.”

“Didn’t get very far though,” Ianto says quietly, and then meets Jack’s eyes again. “Being with you is like nothing I’ve ever experienced.”

“I’ve heard that a few times before.”

“It’s true though. For me.”

When Ianto doesn’t offer anything else, Jack prompts, “What then, that’s it?”

“For now, yes.”

There’s a long pause, and then Jack clears his throat and says a little too seriously, his eyes dark, “I’m sorry, you know.”

“About what?”

“About being so, you know...” Jack pauses. There’s a darkness, an intensity in Jack’s eyes that Ianto’s not used to seeing, an urgency in his words, and for a second, Ianto actually feels _connected_ to Jack. He wonders if maybe this is what it feels like to know what Jack’s thinking, finally. 

“I just… I’m sorry,” Jack finishes. 

Ianto just nods, and after a moment, he lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“You’re not sorry,” Ianto says finally, lowering his eyes, but still smiling a little.

Jack laughs. “You’re right, I’m not. It’s part of my charm. Besides, you love it.”

Ianto considers this, and nods, because Jack’s definitely got him there. “I do,” he admits.

“Nothing to worry about then?”

Ianto cocks his head. “Never said there was, sir.”

Jack grins, then winks. “So what do you say about whipping up some of that magic coffee of yours? I think you tired me out last night.”

“I’ll get right on it, sir,” Ianto says, getting out of bed. One of the covers slides to the floor at his feet.

“I’d suggest you get dressed first though,” Jack says, looking Ianto up and down appraisingly. “The others will be here soon.”

“Right,” Ianto agrees, and Jack tosses him his pants and shirt from where they’d been left the night before—folded into a neat pile on Jack’s desk. 

His stomach does a quick flip when Jack moves towards him a moment later. Jack’s fingers quickly do up the buttons of Ianto’s shirt, before he presses a light kiss to Ianto’s lips. Then Jack moves on to his tie, fingers moving slowly, deliberately, eyes never leaving Ianto’s face. It’s an impressive talent, Ianto thinks, even for Jack.

“We really do have to do this more often,” Jack says when he’s finished, holding out Ianto’s jacket for Ianto to slide his arms into. 

“Anytime, Jack. You know that.” 

**

Sometimes, Ianto thinks, as he ascends the ladder out of Jack’s quarters, it’s possible that being with Jack is something like being lost and being found at the same time. 

Everything, and nothing, mystery and transparency, all wrapped up together in the same package. Indistinguishable from each other, when it comes down to it. 

Ianto Jones’ drug of choice. The one thing that he needs to survive. The one thing he can’t walk away from. The one thing he needs more than anything. 

More than he could ever express in words in his diary. More than he could find words for at all, if he had all the languages in the world at his fingertips. 

Lost, and found. There’s a sort of perfect symmetry in that, in Jack. 

Future or no future, present, past, whatever.

It’s still _something_. Something that matters. Something _good_. 

And Ianto likes good. 

On days like today he _loves_ it. 

Loves brushing his fingers over the knot against his throat and remembering Jack’s hands on his skin, loves the vibration of his phone in his pocket, alerting him that he’s received yet another text message from his boss that has nothing at all to do with work—-Ianto loves every second of it. 

And on days like today, he feels pretty confident that Jack does too. 

**end**


End file.
